Scratches on Ice
by Clio S.S
Summary: Yuuri is sick, with everyone around him trying to relieve his pain. Or not. In any case, lots of fluff. A story inspired by and written in yet another course of fever, so please be understanding. I dedicate it to everyone who knows how bad it feels to be sick alone.


Winter in St. Petersburg was evil.

It hadn't occurred to Yūri that the reason why Victor didn't wear a hat and wrapped his scarf around his neck only when he remembered to do so, didn't relate to fashion or style. The main cause was that Victor simply didn't feel cold; or, perhaps, it happened in the temperatures lower by 20 degrees than in case of a normal human being. He didn't care about frost, only walked with his coat open and his scarf fluttering behind him freely, and he didn't give a hoot about his red ears and nose. Yūri had thought foolishly that in that case his own feelings and sensations probably had been erroneous and he should disregard them. Rather, he'd decided to follow Victor – so far, had he ever suffered from doing so? - and it'd ended in a terrible cold when he'd put too little clothes on right after the second training session.

Yūri was rarely ill, but January in Russia was simply dreadful. Having been brought up in the subtropical climate, the Japanese hadn't been prepared for such cold. Moreover, St. Petersburg - city by any mean delightful - was situated by the sea. High humidity and almost incessant wind blowing from the gulf made even little frost chill to the bone and seem to peel one's skin off their faces. During last two weeks Yūri would repeatedly catch himself missing the mild winters of Kyūshū, and once he'd even managed to recollect the summer heat of his homeland with a sudden sentiment. Of course, he didn't regret having moved to Russia, it was out of question - he had both loves of his life, Victor and skating, here - but now that he was lying in bed, down with fever, a terribly sore throat and even more terrible headache, he wondered whether it'd been that very love making his ability of rational thinking shrink so much.

The training session had been last evening; the fever had come at night, and in the morning he could barely move his hand or any other part of his body. He felt his head would explode any moment and, in general, he wished to die. Sore throat made it impossible to eat, and Yūri suspected he would have a nasty runny nose later. He was more than angry at himself for all that training he would miss, but he felt too bad to put himself down even more - especially that he worried about infecting Victor, now that the European Championships were getting closer. He buried himself under all quilts and blankets they could find - not much, since _Victor didn't feel cold_ \- and hoped he would soon recover when left alone. This, however, wasn't happening.

To say that Victor became hysterical would be exaggerating - even he was able of adjusting his behaviour when faced with a bed-ridden person, at least to some extent; he was just worried. Nevertheless, worried Victor wasn't what Yūri needed the most - but he couldn't just say it aloud, could he, when knew Victor simply cared? Unfortunately, the man who called himself his fiancé never got sick and thus didn't realise agony Yūri suffered. Well, maybe something did get to him when all his efforts were greeted by Yūri's mutter and even deeper dive under the cover. Yūri only longed for aspirin and yet another blanket... as well as something to cover the window, but he didn't dare to say the last thing aloud; Victor didn't allow any curtains in his flat.

There was no aspirin, although they found an old packet of ibuprofen; it expired the next month. Fortunately, the nearest pharmacy was round the corner, so aspirin was soon in stock. In just one hour, three duvets that Victor had ordered by the phone were delivered as well; even if the man didn't get sick - he didn't even use to have a hangover - he at least understood that Yūri wasn't trembling in the bed of desire, not this time. Soon, a doctor came to examine the Japanese skater and inform that NSAIDs and rest would be enough and the cold should recede in a few days; well, not that he said anything that wasn't obvious already. Yūri pulled the duvet over his ears and wished to sleep. He thought he had some chances _because_ Victor had to go out; it didn't fill him with such a remorse it would normally do. After all, he loved Victor more than anything, and Victor's presence was what gave sense to his life - only not today.

At noon, Victor had a press conference in the Figure Skating Federation headquarters; it was to concern resuming his career as well as preparation for the upcoming big events. Due to the current emergency he decided to cancel it right away and was already holding his phone, ready to call Yakov, but Yūri persuaded him to do otherwise. He was a big boy and could stay for one or two hours home alone. His fiancé was clearly upset about it, but Yūri felt really tired already and drifted off to sleep. He waked up when Victor kissed him on his forehead, promised to be back as soon as possible and informed that Yuri would came over to keep him company. Then, before Yūri managed to react to any of this, he disappeared, trying not to slam the door. Yūri pulled the quilt over his head and asked himself again whether Victor loved him more than he loved to torment him.

Not even five minutes passed when a phone ringing started. The five time world champion had forgot it on the bedside table, and Yūri knew better than to ignore it, especially that it was Yakov calling. Before he managed to say a word, an avalanche of swearing, begging and threatening (or that was what he guessed from Yakov's tone of voice) came upon his poor head; when it ended, he informed that Victor had already left and shouldn't be that late, and then he switched off the phone. If he was good about anything, it was learning from mistakes, even someone else's.

In another five minutes, awaited Yuri Plisetsky appeared, cursing everything in general and Victor in particular. Yūri would bear with it - he was quite used to the teenager's bitching and knew it was more about appearances, not genuine malice - but this time the greatest skating prodigy of the generation had brought his cat. Potya, he explained, had been sick lately, and Yuri didn't want to leave him alone unless there was no other option. Yūri groaned in despair that the sick ones needed some peace, not company, and it probably concerned every living species - especially that Makkachin wasn't pleased with this particular guest. Soon, all hell broke loose in the flat, with Potya appearing very lively for a pet that had just been sick. In the end, Yūri got Yuri to take Makkachin for a long walk while he would stay home with Potya. Victor wouldn't know about it, of course. Yuri cast him a glance - full not only of his usual fury, but also apology and gratitude - and evacuated to the nearest park with the poodle, while Yūri buried himself under the duvets, this time accompanied by Potya, who must have been equally shaken by his encounter with the dog.

It was quiet for a while, and Yūri managed to fall asleep again, but then a phone ringing waked him. He took his own phone and picked up, not even looking at the screen. It was Otabek Altin, who had dialled the wrong number, for he really wanted to contact Yuri. He politely apologized for his mistake and rang off, and Yūri fell on the pillow, feeling all people had allied against him and wondering whether he already wanted to cry or not yet. In any case, he wished that all telephones in the world vanished.

Makkachin's loud barking announced the end of the walk - much too soon, for Yūri's taste, but he couldn't demand impossible in this weather. Potya moved deeper under the duvet and pressed himself against Yūri's tight. The door to the bedroom was closed, but the big poodle could easily open it, and then the apocalypse would start again. However, Yuri must have prevented it somehow, and for the next quarter or so Yuri could only hear the dog's cry, disappointed and angry. From time to time, murmuring of the teen could also be heard; the boy must have been pretty discontented with the situation. Yūri was on the verge of overdosing ibuprofen and prayed that Victor already returned.

Victor did return; Yūri knew that when Makkachin's howl turned into a happy barking. Nonetheless, he wasn't prepared for what happened next. The bedroom door was suddenly opened amongst Yuri's clearly belated objections. Before Victor managed to say anything, Makkachin jumped on the bed. Potya darted out from below the cover and started to run, hissing and crying, and the poodle after him, with a wild bark.

Yuri gave a cry of despair, Victor gave a cry of surprise, and Yūri sat up on the bed and yelled, "SHUT THE HELL UP AND GET OUT! I'M REALLY SICK OF YOU!" Then he burst up crying, flung himself of the bed again and pulled two duvets over his head, wishing to be able to vanish into thin air and never show his face to anyone.

And then silence fell to last and last, and last.

He had no idea how much time passed. He spent it in pain, both physical and psychical. In anger and fury. In regret and self-hatred. In desire that this day hadn't even happened. That winter disappeared from the world for ever. No, that he disappeared himself. He sniffed and finally opened his eyes, moving the quilt down from his forehead.

It was getting dark already; this time of year, the evening would come early in St. Petersburg, especially when the day was cloudy. The bare windows (Yūri hoped to one day persuade Victor to hang up the curtains at least in the bedroom) let the grey light of January afternoon inside, but it really hid more in the shadows than revealed. Victor was sitting on the floor, by the edge of the bed. His head was tilted, one cheek resting on his forearm. His blue eyes were open, fixed on Yūri - two intense spots of colours in this sea of winter greyness. For how long had he been sitting like that? For how long had he been observing the cocoon of Yūri? Without a word, without a move, never giving himself away, so unlike him... It was only in sleep that Victor calmed down, and not every time...

Now he was calm, seemed to be... but only seemed. When one had spent more than half of their life on analysing his behaviour and guessing his mood like Yūri Katsuki, they could realise that much, despite cold, despite fever, despite feeling of general unwellness. Analysing and guessing Victor Nikiforov came to Yūri instinctively and without any effort on his part. No, Victor wasn't calm. Although he didn't move, although he stayed in that pose of an apparent relaxation, although he didn't take his blue gaze off Yūri, his fingers shivered slightly on the sheet and his eyes blinked a bit too often.

Was he mad? Still angry with Yūri for what Yūri had said? Yūri already admonished himself for that display, as well as his ingratitude and weakness. He shouldn't have said that... No, he shouldn't have _felt_ it, not towards Victor. He had scratched the pure ice of their happiness and felt very bad about it. It was the first time he'd acted like that; it was the first time he'd vented his frustration – and on the man who meant more than life to him. How their relationship could last after that? Did Victor still want him after that? Despite fever, he felt cold, and the sudden fear clenched his heart.

His throat was sore, and his nose was blocked, yet he lifted his head, giving little attention to the splitting pain in his skull. "I'm so-"

"I'm sorry," Victor whispered, never averting his eyes. "I'm sorry, Yūri," he added even softer.

Yūri blinked and let his head rest down, completely astonished.

"You must have... must feel very unwell, but I didn't really pay attention to it," Victor went on, his voice still a soft whisper. "I'm sorry," he said for the third time.

Yūri twitched. He didn't remember ever hearing Victor apologize so much before. It was strange and made him uncomfortable, especially that there was no reason... After all, it was him...

"Should I leave?" Victor asked in a terribly emotionless voice. "Are you sick of me?"

Yūri's hand slipped from under the quilt before he managed to think of it. He grabbed Victor by the wrist. "Don't go."

The blue eyes he could stare in until the end of the world were filled with relief. Victor took his hand and kissed its inside, like many times before.

Yūri quickly withdrew his arm. "I'm ill," he rasped, trying to cover his abashment. "You'll catch it from me..."

Victor rose, only to sit down on the edge of the bed, and shook his head. "A bad thing never dies," he said in a low voice and then, after a struggle with himself, added, "Let me stay."

Yūri stared at the face he loved more than anything and said nothing.

"Let me stay," Victor said with more emphasis he used to show in normal circumstances. "I won't... I won't disturb you, but I want to be by your side."

And Yūri knew right away he lost. He couldn't say no; he'd been unable to say no for so long now... Victor's fingers clutched on the sheet when five times world champion waited for his reply. Yūri nodded slightly and then sat up to take another aspirin. When he put the empty glass on the bedside table, two arms were wrapped around him from behind.

"Victor, what... I'm filthy..." he uttered.

"I don't care," Victor muttered in his damp hair.

Yūri turned to look at him; he knew his blush would be mistaken for a hectic flush. Victor fell down on the bed, still with Yūri in his embrace. Yūri rested his cheek on his chest and pulled the duvet on them two.

"I'm sorry," Victor whispered again.

"Stop it," Yūri murmured and closed his eyes.

Victor hugged him tighter and said no more. They lay like that in the silence, disturbed only by the distant sounds of cars and trams - friendly and soft sounds of city daylife. There was no talking, no phone ringing, and even Makkachin was calm - maybe he was sleeping on the couch in the living-room. Soon, the darkness fell, absorbing all curves and angles; even the poster disappeared from the sight - the photo of their gala exhibition from GP Final in Barcelona that Victor wanted to have in the bedroom and wouldn't agree to remove it, even though Yūri himself felt terribly embarrassed, every now and then mentioning the existence of that particular photo in that particular place.

His lips quivered when he remembered how Victor had reacted the last time. 'We did _all those things_ here, and you feel embarrassed about a _photograph?_ ' How could he answer? How could he confess that everything was pure and innocent on ice while here... But did he really think that? Was there anything bad about their love? And even if there were... He wouldn't give it up anyway.

He realised his headache finally receded. Maybe it was aspirin, maybe darkness, or maybe Victor. Was Victor sleeping? He was lying so calm and quiet; well, he could sleep in every position and circumstances, even on Yūri and under Yūri. But Yūri could hear his heartbeat, far too quick for a sleeping person. Driving away the thought of needing a shower, he moved slightly and felt two arms tightening around him with resolution. Victor, however, quickly loosened his grip, as if he wanted to say, 'I'm not forcing you.' Yūri knew how he might answer, 'Once you let me to be here, I'm not going anywhere.'

It was warm, quiet, and calm. For the first time since morning - or even the last night - Yūri felt good. Pain splitting his head in two was gone, although he still had tons of other complains. Still, all negative stimuli had disappeared, and only those positive remained, calming and soothing... relieving his misery and turning it into happiness. It might sound absurd, but he really was happy, now that he was lying in bed, down with fever and had no idea when he would recover. He was happy because Victor was by his side - in both physical and psychical way. Victor was here - only for him. He was lying next to him, saying nothing, only holding him in his arms, breathing with him and living the same life. It was enough for Yūri to be happy... He only had had to wait thirteen years.

He loved Victor on ice and outside it. He loved Victor on the podium and in the coach area. He loved Victor during training sessions and during walks with Makkachin. He loved Victor in Hasetsu and in St. Petersburg. He loved Victor during their wildest erotic plays, and he loved him now that Victor kept hugging him, who was sick, sweaty and undoubtedly stinking. He still had troubles believing in those last weeks, last months... but, on the other hand, maybe he should already get used to Victor always surprising him. He decided it was in the future that he would think whether their happiness would last and how long; now, today, this very moment he just wanted to delight in it. Now their happiness was like a barely scratched ice.

He opened his eyes wide and look at the wall with the photograph he could no longer see. Maybe he'd rather not have it here because it showed that perfect happiness of theirs? Maybe he feared that, when things would no longer shape well for and between the two of them, that photograph would point at the ugly contrast between the past and reality?

"Victor...?"

"What is it, _lyubov moya?_ " Victor said at once, and Yūri tried not to shiver at the name; Victor would use it in the moments of their greatest intimacy.

"I'm sorry for reacting that way... before. I'll apologise to Yuri, too. He didn't mean anything wrong, nor did you."

"It is I who is sorry. I acted without thinking. Like always, I acknowledged only my point of view."

"That's not true, you always care about me. Like now..."

"Quite tardily," Victor muttered in his hair.

"I didn't want to ruin anything between us," Yūri said in a quiet voice. "I didn't want to scratch the ice..."

"Yūri, ice isn't that fragile," Victor replied with a whisper, embracing him tighter.

"Isn't it?" Yūri looked at him, although he couldn't see much in the dark.

"Is it? No matter how many people skate on it... tens, hundreds... it won't break. Life is the same. _We_ are the same. All encounters, all events... Scratches are not only those bad and sad things, but also those good and merry... Of course, all of them leave their mark, but ice simply lasts. You can't break it."

"But... Scratched ice... isn't beautiful."

"Well, I think it is. After all, it's for skating, isn't it? Ice itself, pure and perfect... What's the point in it? It's like a canvas not touched by a brush. Would you rather have a white canvas or a painting, Yūri? Scratches on ice create a tale, a history. It's a different kind of beauty, more full, more natural, more... real."

Yūri tried to figure out the details of his face, to no avail, until he let his head fall again on Victor's chest and listened to the familiar heartbeat. What Victor had just said... It didn't sound that bad. If he could believe it, then would their story...

"Do you think our story will be... beautiful?" he whispered, shutting his eyes tight and barely feeling embarrassed by those words.

"Yūri," Victor replied with affection, "it already is. But... Yes, I think it's going to be more and more beautiful with every passing day. More and more unique with every new scratch... Our own story."

"Even those unpleasant things...?"

"Even those unpleasant things. We're not so weak to let them ruin what is between us, are we? And even... even if you feel uncertain about it, _lyubov moya_ , believe me that I am strong enough for the both of us."

"Oh no, don't you dare to underestimate me," Yūri said in a provocative voice and then added, as if to remind Victor of it, "I've been loving you for thirteen years already."

"Then, it's even better," Victor replied, and there was laughter in his tone.

Yūri felt like laughing, too, for the first time this day. The load on his chest felt lighter. Two arms were still holding him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

"Thank you for being here," he said.

"I thank you," Victor responded. "And... Yūri?"

"Yes?"

"Don't be afraid to tell me how you feel. Even if you feel bad... No, _especially_ then. Don't keep everything inside, don't worry you might hurt me. You won't hurt me. I can't read your mind, I don't know what happens in your head, I often can't tell how you feel... Thus, Yūri, don't hide it from me. If you feel bad, if you don't like it, if you want it another way... Just say it. You know how I am. I often can't see further than the end of my nose, and I need to be brought to heel. Don't be afraid to tell me that, don't be afraid to be honest with me. Together... we'll always manage. Scratches cannot hurt us," Victor said with emphasis.

Yūri thought his fiancé asked impossible, but... "I'll try," he muttered and quickly added, "From time to time."

Victor hugged him once more, and the silence fell again, filled with love and safety, as if the previous situation had never happened. 'Ice isn't that fragile,' Yūri repeated Victor's words and thought now he might be able to believe them. 'Together we'll always manage,' sounded even more delightful... although, at present, he wished they managed his cold, in the first place. But, they probably were on the right lines. In the evening, even as Yūri's fever rose, he was in incomparably better mood than in the morning, and he knew his recovery had already started.

After all, love was much more effective than aspirin.


End file.
